


Sleep on the Floor

by marauders_groupie



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Artsy kids!AU, F/M, Healing, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-05
Updated: 2016-11-05
Packaged: 2018-08-29 05:49:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8477662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marauders_groupie/pseuds/marauders_groupie
Summary: A Bellarke artsy kids high school AU in which Clarke paints, Bellamy writes poetry and they're a little broken, but heal together.*"I can't buy anything here." "I know, Bell, but we can just pretend."The second-hand bookstore has shelves taller than the tops of their heads and all of the books there feel loved in a way that only used books can be. Clarke mostly roams around, watches Bellamy drag his fingertips across the covers, read the backs of them. Sometimes, when he dislikes what he’s read, he’ll wrinkle his nose and roll his eyes. But when he likes it – his eyes will widen, only to get narrow again, the smallest of pouts appearing on his features because he knows he can’t buy them.She doesn’t know when she’s taken to mapping his expressions. If she ever writes a book, it’s going to be that – The Thousand Expressions of Bellamy Blake, with detailed commentary on why he matters more than he knows.At some point, he comes over while she’s paging through a book on Van Gogh and laces their fingers together. He doesn’t look at her and Clarke just chuckles, squeezes his hand tighter.“Show me what you’ve found, Poet Man.”





	

**Author's Note:**

> If you follow me on [tumblr](http://marauders-groupie.tumblr.com), then you've probably heard me squealing about this AU. I've gone for dirty romanticism again and it is what it is. I'm sorry it took me so long but now it's done and I hope you'll like it! 
> 
> The title is from The Lumineers' song of the same name, which I strongly encourage listening to bc it's gorgeous. 
> 
>  
> 
> Enjoy! :)

It's a Blake thing, Bellamy figures when he sees Clarke Griffin sitting on the couch in the middle of his family’s living room.

It's just like them to take in strays, not caring for personal gain.

But some things are too much even for a family that can’t help itself and compensates by helping everyone else.

"What the hell is this?" he asks, hands on his hips as Clarke Griffin, an overachiever turned pariah of her own choosing, flinches and looks up at him like a deer caught in the headlights.

She looks alright - no bruises, no cuts. She's not hurt in any way. But still she doesn't _seem_ alright. There is something about her that feels off, in the curve of her lips or in her arms wrapped around her torso.

It's his mother who answers, still in her uniform but carrying two cups of coffee as she smiles at her son. "Clarke needs a place to sleep over. We have spare beds."

He raises his eyebrows, thinks of the crappy spare room and the princess who lives in a villa on the top of Arkadia hill. "Her mansion suddenly ran out of room?"

Clarke gets up, but his mother shoots him a glare and Bellamy shrugs.

"He's right, Mrs. Blake. I should go."

"Nonsense." A hand on Clarke's shoulder, frown in Bellamy's direction. "You're welcome here."

"Fine," Bellamy huffs after a silent stare-off. "You can take my room."

And it's been like this ever since Bellamy can remember. A small town, kid sister to take care of, mother with a typical “turned to the right side of the law and became a police officer” story, strays that just need a chance to change their lives for the better.

Except that he goes to school with Clarke and they've never spoken a _real_ word to each other. She's a know-it-all princess hailing from old money and he's just a scholarship student who's trying his best to get out of there.

"Wanna tell me what happened?" he asks, leading her up the stairs to his attic bedroom. There's inches of dust everywhere, the roof window lets in cold air, the floor creaks and he's still got Nickelback posters up, but. It's his. It's shitty but it's _his_.

Clarke is quiet, trailing after him, and when he turns around, her eyes are red, cheeks blotchy. She doesn't look like a princess at all.

She just looks seventeen and a little lost.

"Um," she hiccups and bats away at her tears so violently she nearly pokes herself in the eye. "Your mom caught me drinking at the overlook. Took my car keys, said she wouldn't file a report if I told her what's wrong."

"And did you?"

She nods, steps into his room. Bellamy's hand darts to rub at his neck, his mind already coming up with apologies for the state of it but then he sees Clarke smiling just a little and when her eyes fall on the bookshelf, they widen impossibly.

"These are all yours?"

"Yeah."

"Can I?" She nods towards them and he chuckles, tells her to go right ahead.

There's paperbacks and hard covers, gilded and plain, water-smudged and ripped only to be pieced together with sellotape. Some of them have been ruined when Octavia was learning how to write and chose to imprint her first words onto the pages of his favorite books.

But if he can read them, he can love them.

"Shit, these are gorgeous," she whispers, tracing her fingertips against the oldest editions, faint gold lettering on the spines.

Then she looks at him, as if she's seeing him for the first time and says, "I'm sorry."

"Nothing to be sorry for."

She levels him with an unimpressed glare. "You have a stranger in your bed." And then, realizing what she's said when he cocks an eyebrow at her, with a faint blush in her cheeks, she adds - "Not what I meant."

"Yeah, I know. But it's fine. I'll get you fresh sheets and towels and leave you to it."

When he's nearly out the door, she asks quietly, "You're not gonna ask me what I told your mom?"

"You'll tell me when you're ready."

And with that, he closes the door, trying to push back the thought of the same Clarke Griffin who once fought off the bullies for him sitting on his bed in his shitty room and looking like there's no ounce of strength in her anymore.

 

*

 

They don't talk about it in school (both of them in their respective worlds; Bellamy hiding the scraps of paper with bits of his poetry on them, Clarke with earbuds shoved in and ignoring the world) but when he comes home from work, she's switching the channels on his TV with Octavia painting her toenails electric blue.

Bellamy doesn't even ask, just quips, "Isn't your mom gonna miss you?" and leaves for the kitchen.

When he comes back, it's just Octavia there and she shrugs at his questioning look. She's recently turned eleven and as such, she is severely disenchanted by the whole human experience.

"Don't ask me. Ask yourself what you did."

"No more doctor Phil for you, brat." He ruffles her hair and she shoots up the stairs, cursing him out for being inconsiderate.

Bellamy honestly doesn't remember that Clarke's there until he goes up to his room and sees her lying on his bed, a sketchbook open in front of her, earbuds in her ears (fucking _typical_ ), and fingers stained with charcoal.

It's a different Clarke to the one he knows. He knows the pristine princess, but he doesn't know this person, hair like a halo of a confused angel, eyes crazed and fingers fervent.

She catches him smiling and Bellamy ducks his head instantly.

"How long have you been standing there?" she asks, eyes unfocused, everything about her hazy. Even her sweater makes her look like a calm sunset.

"Not long, just -"

"Just creeping, right?"

At that, he bristles and scoffs. "Yeah, dream on, princess. Because you're such a catch, all fucked up like this."

He knows he's said the wrong thing as soon as her head snaps up, death glare in her eyes. Nothing princess-like about her now.

"Wow, Bellamy Blake, what's it like up there on your high horse? I bet the view over us peasants must be beautiful."

There's a rustle of papers, storm clouds brewing as she gets her things and scrambles from his bed. The Lumineers are playing from the buds hanging around her neck.

Before she leaves, she stops in front of him, close enough for Bellamy to smell his own strawberry shampoo coming off of her hair in waves.

"And you don't get to judge me, Bellamy. You don't. Just because you have a chip on your shoulder doesn’t mean you know everything there is to know about life.”

She slams the door shut and her footfalls echo even long after she’s gone. But even if Bellamy tried, he couldn't make himself feel angry.

Because Clarke Griffin is right.

And he fucked up.

 

*

 

They don't talk for days after that. Bellamy doesn't ask her when she's going back home and she doesn't mention what he said the other day.

It goes on like that until it's 3am on a Friday night and Bellamy can't sleep. The spare room bed is hurting his back, the book he's reading is boring as fuck and he really wants blueberry yoghurt.

He's careful not to wake up anyone on his way downstairs. His mom's just come off her shift, passed out in her bed, uniform still on, and Octavia is probably knocked out from her soccer practice.

He likes the world best like this; quiet. But he’s forgotten about Clarke and so when he sees her silhouette painted in the yellow of the streetlight and black of the darkness, he’s barely able to contain a scream.

Clarke is curled up on the floor, and her shoulders are shaking with sobs she is failing to silence with a hand pressed to her lips.

And _fuck_ , there is something in the way her eyes are wide in raw horror that makes him rush forward, wrap his arms around her and whisper sweet nothings until she's crying into his shoulder.

"Clarke, hey, Clarke," he whispers, stroking her back as she shakes. It's that image, her eyes widening as if she's experiencing something cruel at this very moment, that etches itself onto the back of his eyelids.

And he can't let go.

Because he knows what it tastes like, the bile rising in her throat, tears streaming down her cheeks, every one more bitter than the other. Bellamy knows and he doesn't want her to feel like this.

So he stays with her as she paws at his chest, battling a monster Bellamy knows well, and he makes sure that she knows she's not alone.

"I got you, I got you."

Her hair sticks to her forehead, shirt soaked through, a walking ruin that he failed to see.

Clarke looks up at him after what feels like centuries, eyes red and croaks, "You got me?"

"Yeah, yeah, Clarke." He brushes a curl out of her eyes. "Yeah, I got you."

"You hate me too, don't -"

"I'm a dick but I don't hate you. Okay? So just let go, it'll be okay. Let it all out."

And for whatever reason, she does. He’ll help her later, he'll eat lunch with her if that's what it takes to chase the haunted out of her eyes.

But now they're just kids and they've got only each other to cling on to.

So they do. Clarke cries and Bellamy doesn’t know when he starts crying, too, but he does, because he remembers feeling like this. He remembers feeling lost and lonely, like the whole world is using him as a punching bag, and even though he doesn’t know what made Clarke feel like that – he doesn’t care.

If she needs help, he’ll give that to her.

“My dad – “ she starts, once the tears have subsided. Her head is on his shoulder, their fingers laced somehow. It doesn’t feel real, the silent kitchen and nothing but her timid voice. “It’s my fault he’s dead, Bellamy.”

“What are you talking about? Your dad is dead?”

It takes her time, two deep breaths as he assures her that she doesn’t have to tell him. Clarke just shakes her head, says, “I _want_ to.” The clock ticks away restlessly, fridge humming. Everything is just background noise. “My mom and I – we were fighting and he was rushing home to calm us down when he got into a car accident. He blew past a red light, and a truck – “

Her voice quavers and for a second, Bellamy thinks about letting her go ahead, but his heart flips in his chest and he can’t. “It’s fine, I understand. I’m sorry.”

Sorry doesn’t cut it. He remembers what it was like when his dad died. Maybe he was just a seven year old but he remembers how deeply it hurt. How it felt like there was a gaping hole in his chest that could never be fixed.

Clarke smiles weakly at him. “See, it was my fault because I was the one who provoked it, and – my mom doesn’t blame me, not really. But _I_ blame myself.”

“It wasn’t your fault he ran a red light, Clarke. That’s bullshit.”

“It still feels like it is and I just can’t shake it off.”

They go back to sitting in silence, shoulder to shoulder, and then, when he thinks she’s stumbled into the drowsy kind of sleep that makes you wonder if you’re getting ill, he whispers, “Give it time.”

 

*

 

She avoids him for the better part of Saturday, finds excuses not to be in the same room with him, ducking her head and blushing like crazy. It’s funny until it isn’t anymore because she’s got that air about her – like someone has taught her that emotions are shameful and now she has to hide from anyone she’s shown them to.

But Bellamy is not about to let that slide so when he meets her in the hallway, her front teeth in a burnt piece of toast, no one in the house except for the pair of them, he goes ahead and asks: “What’s going on?”

It’s almost funny, how her eyes widen and she drops the toast onto her plate, sighs.

“I’m sorry about last night.”

“Why the hell are you sorry?”

“I shouldn’t have – it was way out of line. We’re not even friends.”

He has to scoff at that, it’s stronger than him. “You live in my bedroom, we spill our sob stories to each other, I know that you haven’t shaved your legs for a week and you can probably guess that I’m a bookworm so, yeah. We’re definitely friends.”

The giggle she lets out seems almost unnatural but it makes his heart flip _right_. He shouldn’t be this happy she’s smiling, but it looks good on her. Her eyes are still bloodshot but in that oversized pink sweater, she almost looks joyful.

“Okay, you’re right. So, we’re friends, huh?”

“Ye _p_ ,” he pops the p, grins when she averts her gaze. “So, Clarke Griffin.”

“So, Bellamy Blake.”

But they’re both smiling brazenly and it doesn’t take them that long to end up on his bed, Clarke’s feet propped up in his lap as she sketches and he reads the paragraphs he really likes out loud. It’s The Iliad again, but it’s fine because she hasn’t read it and she wants to.

“What about Medusa?” she asks, all of a sudden. Bellamy frowns, fixes his glasses.

“What about her?”

She wrinkles her nose, a stray freckle right on the tip of it. It’s hard to see it but now he can. The sunlight streams in through his window just right, making her hair look like liquid gold. It’s endearing, somehow. “Why is she a villain?”

“Depends on who you ask. Some say she is a villain because they fear her. Others blame her. In the end, it wasn’t her fault.”

“Huh.”

“The world’s gonna try and fuck you over six ways ‘til Sunday. Athena punished Medusa for being raped in her temple because Poseidon was too powerful to be punished. When you want to blame someone, you find a scape goat.”

“That’s pretty deep, Blake.”

He shrugs, feeling his lips pick up in a smile. “I try.”

“Nah, you don’t.”

 

*

 

In the end, Clarke Griffin sneaks up on him.

She sneaks up on him with her messy hair, paint stained hands, ripped baggy jeans and a smile that somehow makes him feel like he's at home.

Clarke moves back home two weeks later, picking up her things from his room, no trace left of her, except for the sweater she forgot and crumpled sheets of paper, failed drawings that still seem beautiful to Bellamy.

(“I want to go to med school,” she told him, half-assing it.

“No, you don’t.”

“No, I don’t.”

“So what do you really want to do?”

“I want to create real fucking _art_.”)

Except for the smell of the shampoo they shared. Except for the deep knowledge in his bones that she used to be here, that they lay on that same bed and shot the shit because it was easier than confronting the reality they should have been facing.

It seemed easy with her, to forget that his mother was never home, that Octavia was always his responsibility, so he told Clarke about it because when you meet someone whose heart is as heavy as yours, pain ebbs away.

“She’s not your responsibility, though,” Clarke told him, frowning. “You were six when she was born. You can’t saddle a kid with the responsibility of raising another.”

She still smiles at his mom, hugs her before her own comes to pick up her up, but it’s different.

And then there is the fact that now that he knows her, it seems impossible to Bellamy to unknow her. She cracks bad jokes and feels like herself only when she is far away from the world, in a completely different universe of art. She is soft, hugs him for no apparent reason, watches trashy shows with Octavia, can’t cook but bakes mean cookies, and she’s –

She’s more than he thought she would be, honestly. Bellamy isn’t the sort of person who has a lot of friends, a steady social circle. He hangs out with Miller every now and then but most of the time, between school and work, there’s no one else that wants to fit themselves into his schedule.

So he just supposes Clarke won’t want to do it either. He goes to school the day after she leaves and tries not to think about it; maybe it’s just one of those friendships that blossom and then wither away. It happens. It’s not a big deal.

But then she storms to his table at lunch, brow furrowed, and takes a seat across from him. “Why didn’t you come find me?”

And Bellamy is flabbergasted, just feels shot down. Clarke doesn’t even give him a chance to respond, just takes one of her earbuds out and hands it to him. “I found this amazing new song, you should listen to it.”

She sticks the earbud into his ear, leaving him feeling a little confused and mostly giddy that she’s sitting across the bench from him, her chin in her palm, gauging his reaction. It’s an easy tune, waves washing across him, the swell of a tide. The cafeteria is crowded with people but it still feels sort of quiet.

Years later, he’ll pinpoint that exact moment as the moment he’s decided to become friends with Clarke Griffin.

Years later, she’ll roll her eyes when he tells her that, say that he’s never had much of a choice.

But he did.

And his choice was to smile at his hands and whisper, “Vance Joy.”

“Vance fucking Joy.”

Her responding smile is almost bright enough to make him forget that her grief was a raw and living thing on his kitchen floor, and the day ends with the two of them sitting under the bleachers, sun hazy in the sky.

Clarke’s hair is frizzy but she’s laughing, throat thrown to where stars should be but there’s only graffiti, pencils stuck in that bird’s nest and the Ralph Lauren shirt with all her Sharpie drawings looks like art, somehow. The tiny horse looks like a mistake amidst all that artwork.

“Ruining expensive clothes, huh, Princess?”

She wrinkles her nose at him, takes a bite out of her pickle and cheese sandwich. “Nope. I just made them better, that’s all.”

And Bellamy laughs because – what the hell are you supposed to do with someone who’s decided to go wild with their art, with their feelings, as if someone had once taught her not to feel and now that she can – there’s no stopping her. Because everything about her seems to scream – listen, _listen_ , I fought to be this soft.

They go to bookstores and libraries and carnival grounds, when one opens in Arkadia. He makes Clarke shoot down a huge teddy bear for him and she does, with a smirk and a precise shot, and he holds her hair when she throws up in the trash can after a roller coaster.

Then he gets her Coke and takes a photo because – “I want to keep this memory in my mind forever. The almighty Clarke Griffin puking after a rollercoaster.”

“Stop being such a dick, Blake,” she drawls, face still green and hugging the trash can. “Live a little.”

“And throw up like you?” He scoffs. “Thanks, but no thanks.”

But at the end of the day – she’s his friend. Absolutely ridiculous, daydreaming in class, screaming matches with her mother because – “I finally found a way to be me and fuck, Bellamy, I gotta hold on to that” – friend.

She says it like she’s desperate, red-rimmed eyes in his kitchen again, way too late, no one in the world except for the two of them. He’s never been to her house, but his doors are always open for her. Even if she’s just in her pajamas and a leather jacket slung across her shoulders, slippers still on.

They’re confused and they are so young. They can’t know the answers to all the questions. But they sure as hell blame themselves.

“If you need approval, I’ll give that to you.”

It takes both of them a second for the effect of his words to set in, to find the real meaning behind them. And then Clarke nods, curt, all that golden hair spilling in waves across her shoulders, and her leather jacket smells like strawberries when she buries her head in the crook of his neck and winds her arms around his waist.

“Thank you, Bellamy. Thank _you_.”

He cards his fingers through her hair, finds a spot on her back that doesn’t feel invasive to him. He knows this – he knows how to kiss someone and make it taste like a bruise. Knows how to do the walk of shame and grin when he sees the person he’s spent the weekend with the next day.

But _this_ is still new. His heart flipping in his chest is new and he doesn’t want to fuck it up.

“It’s okay, Clarke,” he smiles into her hair, feels her relaxing in his arms. “I got you.”

 

**

 

Bellamy smells like fresh detergent and he is soft, despite all his hard edges.

That’s what Clarke’s got, when she’s spinning on a chair in the diner he works in, this tiny place on the outskirts of Arkadia. People there are tired, truckers and families who are just stopping to get something to eat. Kids fall asleep with their heads leaning on the cold windows, strawberry shakes dripping down their chins.

Clarke _loves_ it.

Bellamy just rolls his eyes and tells her to stop being so fucking poetic. “ _I’m_ the neighborhood poet.”

She stops spinning long enough to really register what he’s said and then she all but shoots across the counter, close enough for their noses to brush. “ _What_.”

Bellamy blinks. There are freckles scattered wherever she looks. “What what?”

“You never said you were a poet. Why didn’t you say you were a poet? I feel betrayed, Bellamy Blake. That’s important shit.”

“Well, my poetry _is_ shit, so.”

“So are my drawings and I know you still stick them to your wall.”

That gets him to blush, his cheeks turning a deep shade of red and he ducks his head, trying to hide a smile. Bellamy often grins and smirks. But she loves this kind of smiles the most.

“That was one time,” he whispers, but neither of them are convinced. When he looks back up, Clarke is in her seat but there’s a smile pulling at the corners of her mouth and his glasses are a little askew.

A customer draws his attention and she takes the chance to keep working on the sketch of him. Mostly, she does it when he’s not looking; when there’s too much of a crowd in the diner for him to do anything other than shoot her apologetic glances and inconspicuous eyerolls when someone has unreasonable demands.

It’s endearing.

 _Shut up_ , that doesn’t mean anything.

 

*

 

On the first day of spring and her eighteenth birthday, Clarke makes him dye her hair hot pink.

“Just the tips?” he asks, frowning at her and at the bottle of dye she’s stuck into his face.

Clarke shakes her head.

“Nope. My whole hair.”

“Your mom’s gonna kill you. Death day and birthday on the same day – that sounds pretty shitty.”

“Mhm.” A beat of silence. “So, are you gonna help me or not?”

Bellamy runs a hand down his face, eternally exasperated, and if she didn’t know him as well as she does – (as well as you can know someone who’s held you while you did your best not to fucking fall apart) – she’d think he didn’t like her.

But she knows that to be false so they’re good.

“Yeah,” he groans at last, snatching the bottle from her. “But just because I don’t want you to fuck it up.”

“Sure, keep telling yourself that.”

It always feels like they’re teetering on the edge of something, something she can’t quite name. He stands too close to her when dyeing her hair, his breath warm on her cheek and sending shivers down her spine. With Finn, it was bonfires and pep rallies and wearing his varsity jacket, something light and loud and short-lived.

With Bellamy, it’s the comfort of knowing that you have a home to return to.

She lets him wash her hair, careful fingertips tangling themselves into her messy curls, and she watches all that red wash down the drain, thinks how she could’ve been at the same place in a very different way months ago, had it not been for him.

And now she gets this – gets her best friend to dye her hair for her, gets the stupid selfies and the slow nights when both of them are too tired to study so they just collapse on the couch, limbs twisted and forgetting that they should be ashamed.

When he’s done, he sits on the bathtub and nods at the mirror, tired but still smiling. “Take a look. It’s amazing.”

It is.

It is, and it’s pink and it’s so different from that golden shade of hair she used to have. It fits her, or at least fits who she’s trying to be these days.

So who can blame her for enveloping him in a hug and pecking his cheek so sloppily that he has to wipe it with his hand, laughing all the while. “Yeah, yeah, Griffin, love you, too.”

They let it slide because the tips of his ears turn the same shade of her hair and Clarke’s breath catches. They both know the gravity of his words. You can’t turn back from this and they’re just kids, what do they know?

(But she still whispers it back into his hair when he’s asleep with his head on her lap later on. That’s the least she can do.)

 

*

 

"I can't buy anything here."

"I know, Bell, but we can just pretend."

The second-hand bookstore has shelves taller than the tops of their heads and all of the books there feel loved in a way that only used books can be.

Clarke mostly roams around, watches Bellamy drag his fingertips across the covers, read the backs of them. Sometimes, when he dislikes what he’s read, he’ll wrinkle his nose and roll his eyes. But when he likes it – his eyes will widen, only to get narrow again, the smallest of pouts appearing on his features because he knows he can’t buy them.

She doesn’t know when she’s taken to mapping his expressions. If she ever writes a book, it’s going to be that – _The Thousand Expressions of Bellamy Blake, with detailed commentary on why he matters more than he knows_.

At some point, he comes over while she’s paging through a book on Van Gogh and laces their fingertips together. He doesn’t look at her and Clarke just chuckles, squeezes his hand tighter.

“Show me what you’ve found, Poet Man.”

The first time they met, she was sure he hated her. She’d hate herself if the positions were switched, but. He brought her fresh sheets and tried to make her feel welcome. He understood why she felt guilty about her father’s death, something she still thinks about when she’s got too much free time. Her mind will just wander towards those thoughts and she can’t do anything.

But now Bellamy points at a shelf and she props herself up on her toes to get the book, lets him talk about why he’d like to buy it – as if he doesn’t deserve anything if he doesn’t have a good reason for it. He holds her hand, she holds his, and they walk between the shelves until the sun’s gone down and they have to get back home.

“Happy birthday,” she says before he drops her off in front of her house, makes him gasp because he probably didn’t know that she knows. She’s smiling, he’s gaping, and there are three books on the seat between them when she really decides to finish him off.

“Fuck, Clarke, you didn’t – “

“Have to?” she interjects, raising her eyebrows. “Yeah, probably. But still. Happy birthday, Bell.”

(She leaves before she can hear him say thank you.)

 

*

 

Some days, Bellamy seems at war with himself. Clarke knows that he thinks she doesn't notice how he hides his hands in the pockets of his jeans, runs them through his hair, averts his gaze. His knuckles are swollen and scabbed over, palms full of scars. A lifetime of creating crescent moons takes its toll.

He can never accept that he can't do anything about his mother's poor life choices, about the world trying to reduce him to that tiny blue house and cardboard boxes instead of nightstands.

So she does her best to make him smile, bad jokes and even worse hug attacks. And when he laughs, Clarke knows that his life didn't get any better, but her heart still swells because if anyone deserves to be happy - it's Bellamy Blake.

When nothing else works – she draws flowers on his arms. The first time she does it, it catches him off-guard during one of his bad moods and for a second she thinks he’s going to be angry, but then –

He stops scowling and _smiles_.

“That’s cool. Can you do jade vines?”

Clarke nods. “I can if you show me a photo.”

By the end of the day, he’s got at least three of them on his arms, turquoise and blossoming between the scars he’s got on his knuckles and his elbow. He smiles at her and she knows she should see him for what he is – messy inky curls, constellations of freckles expanding on his cheeks, scar above his upper lip, kind eyes.

But all she sees is _everything_. And it’s funny, how you can suddenly see a whole universe blooming in a person, and say nothing at all.

 

**

 

A bad day comes because those haven’t come around for quite a while and Bellamy is driving back home from work when he sees an unknown caller’s ID on his phone.

“Bellamy Blake? Hi, it’s Abby Griffin.”

When he comes to the Griffin manor – because it is a manor, it’s almost a castle – he shoots past Abby Griffin, whose brows are furrowed and lips bitten to blood.

“She’s in her room. It’s her father’s death anniversary, it’s – we fought.”

This is the second time he sees Abby Griffin and there’s no composure left on her face now. No, now she’s just as raw and as grieving as her daughter was, and he’s not going to give her shit for it. There’s no one who can help Clarke, not when she’s like this.

But he still knocks on her door and gets her to let him in. Her hair is greasy, tear tracks on her cheeks, and she moves away as soon as she locks the door behind him.

“If you came here to help me, that’s – “

“I didn’t. I came here to listen.”

She nods, like she can deal with that but not much else, and somehow they end up sitting under her window, their backs to it, sunshine caressing Bellamy’s shoulders. Summer should start any day now. When he looks at Clarke, all he can see is winter.

“It’s my fault. It’s always going to be my fault, and now, when I talk to my mom – that’s all I see. She turned this whole house into a memorial, it’s – and it’s my fault. If I weren’t so unreasonable, he’d still be here. My dad would still be here.”

The sobs start wracking her body again, like they did the first time he’s seen her like this, but it’s different. He knows this, this part where you come to terms with what you’ve got.

“And I’m doing it again, saying a huge fuck you to what is a good plan for my life. It’s so stupid, Bellamy. All of this.” She grabs a handful of her hair, tugs at it, shows him her pink tips. The color’s nearly washed away. “What am I trying to do, honestly? It’s so – so _stupid_.”

“You’re trying to run away.”

She eyes him for a second there and he knows how this tastes, too. This hollow she must be feeling. That’s how he felt after his father died, after Octavia turned five and he understood that this would be his life – taking care of her. After his mother came home to two crying children and went to bed.

They’re all trying to get their redemption stories but looking at Clarke, looking at himself – fuck, the two of them really have nothing to redeem themselves for. So much of the weight they bear is someone else’s.

“We did good, Clarke. We did good.” He pulls her in, lets her hold on to him quietly, just a sniffle here and there. Two months from now on, they might not even remember this.

But right now –

Right now, Clarke smiles into his shoulder and asks, “How do you know all of these things?”

And for the first time in his life, looking at the glass on her floor, the figurine she must’ve smashed against the door – or so her mother told Bellamy, he lets go and he tells her.

He tells her about fighting with his own mother, about the real toll of raising Octavia, about the steady stream of shitty boyfriends – about how it all seemed to vanish for everyone else with the blue uniform his mother suddenly chose to don.

It never vanished for him.

“Just because she got herself clean and found a job, went to the police academy when Octavia was six and left us with her aunt – that doesn’t mean shit. Arkadia remembers her as a good policewoman who was always there for her neighbors. I just remember her as my mother, who did wrong. And this overwhelming guilt both you and I have? Not our fault, okay? It’s not your fault your dad wasn’t more careful. And it’s not your fault for trying to be happy.”

 _It’s not my fault, either_ , he tries to tell himself but nothing works until she cups his face, eyes crazed and shakes her head. “You need to tell yourself that, too.”

And as always, she’s right and Bellamy laughs, laughs in spite of how fucked up everything is, the two of them hanging on to each other until the sun goes down, like the time they walked around a bookstore and held hands, kids on a first date.

They never got the kiss, not exactly, but at least they’ve still got each other.

When both their voices are hoarse from crying, Clarke utters, “Write poetry on my skin. I know you don’t like doing it, but – just once. Please, Bellamy. Just once I want to be art.”

“I’ve always been shit at saying no to you.”

Pretty things about stars and suns, ugly things about shattered glass, flowers blooming on the spread of her thigh, letters curling around her ankles. Clarke smiles all the while, cracks stupid jokes like she’s the one who is supposed to cheer him up, but at the end of the night, she’s got a whole poem about rebuilding yourself from ashes on her ribcage and she’s lying on her floor, smiling up at him.

“That’s gorgeous. That’s so fucking gorgeous, Bellamy.”

Then he realizes something - Clarke has always been taught what the best way to emote is, as if there was ever a wrong way. And when she broke free, trading crystal glass sets for mismatched mugs, in her wildness, she simply didn't learn how to do anything but care unapologetically, raw and open and honest. Some days it's drawings of flowers when his knuckles are bruised, others it's holding to him like to a lifeline. For someone who has been taught to be cold and composed all their life, Clarke is a wild and beautiful thing.

Sometimes, Bellamy wants to tell her not to let her guard down but it feels like he would put a dent in the universe by doing just that.

So instead - he kisses her.

It’s the only thing he can think of, pressing his lips to hers, tentatively and slowly, giving her a chance to back away. But all she does is pull him in by the hair on the nape of his neck, licking into his mouth and kissing him back deep and dirty, her hands everywhere all at once.

He laughs into her mouth and she bites on his lower lip, turns them so she’s on top of him, pen ink on her skin leaving stains on his shirt until she makes him get rid of it.

“I’ve wanted to do this for so long,” she whispers between kisses, her lips on his neck, his hands fixed to the searing hot skin of her lower back. She’s got a pair of grey sweatpants on and she’s the hottest fucking thing he’s ever seen.

“Good,” he replies, steals a kiss from her and makes her giggle. They’re both hysterical, probably, but he doesn’t give a shit. Her lips taste like tears and coffee and something very _Clarke_ – something like this paradox that she is, and he’s so in love it’s not even funny anymore.

By the time they’re both down to their underwear, eyes glassy, her lips are swollen and red and something in Bellamy stirs, makes him feel proud like – fuck, _he_ did that.

“This is going too fast.”

“Yeah, probably.”

“Do you give a shit?”

Clarke grins. “Not at all.”

 

*

 

Three days later, her feet are propped up on the dashboard of his truck and, because his radio doesn’t work anymore, music is blaring from the speakers on her phone. Sun looks like it’s about to set above the ocean or into it, maybe – Bellamy is not quite sure anymore.

But he is sure that it’s got nothing on Clarke’s smile, which isn’t easy. Oh no, it’s weighed down but that’s alright, because his is, too. That’s okay. He’s not looking for a Hollywood happy ending – this one is enough for him; Clarke making waves with her hand and Bellamy singing along to the song. They’re speeding down the highway, sea salt and their voices high in the air.

Tomorrow, they might go back home and figure out college.

But today, she pecks his cheek and nearly causes him to drive the truck into a wall, and yeah.

This one right here is his favorite.

“You were right, Bell,” she says at last, smiling like she has been for the past two days. “Yeah, we really did good.”

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading this fic and I hope you liked it! If you did, please let me know - kudos & comments are much appreciated! <3
> 
> The tidbit part: I've planned to include Van Gogh socks somewhere but I didn't manage to do it. Just imagine them, I'm sure it's not hard, Clarke is artsy af in this one. Also, I've mentioned dirty romanticism which is a term my lovely Bethany came up with - I've taken to just explaining it as "kids with bleeding hearts and poetic minds." Thanks, babe! 
> 
> Also, you can [buy me a coffee here](https://ko-fi.com/A408E25) ( _all_ proceeds will be used to keep [Loud and Alive](http://loudandaliveblog.com/) up and running).


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